


Close Quarters

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Nessian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: (Modern AU) Two people, one cabin, plus a whole lot of love-hate tension.





	1. Part One

Nesta stared at the empty coffee cup in her hand, eyes scanning the untidy scrawl marring the artisanal design of the cardboard sleeve.

“CASSIAN + NESTA,” it read, their names lassoed inside a sloppily drawn heart. A phone number had been added underneath. His phone number.

A phone number she had debated calling for the last half hour. Not because she was interested, but because she was desperate.

 _Desperate to live_ , she mentally clarified, not desperate for his attention.

Never that.

If the concerned radio chatter was anything to go by, the worst snowstorm of the decade was about to shove itself right up their county’s ass—and Nesta was stranded directly in its path. Because of course her sixteen-year-old Corolla decided to sputter and die at that very moment, belching its last breath on the side of a winding mountain road.

If shit out of luck had a picture in the dictionary, the definition would be Nesta’s face. She had no supplies and only enough battery to make one phone call. Even if she called emergency services, it would take at least half the night to brave the high winds, low visibility, and cruel temperatures.  

It also didn’t help that the closest town was about ten miles uphill. And the hazardous combination of ice, snow, and hail weren’t exactly the perfect conditions for her threadbare winter coat and high-heeled boots.

In other words, Nesta was fucked in the worst possible way and she couldn’t help but wonder if karma was finally rearing its ugly head. It wasn’t as if she didn’t _know_ she was a closed-off, hard-to-read, and generally temperamental person. In fact, she took pride in being able to say exactly what was on her mind. Even if it now meant that her contact list was about as short as the members of her immediate family.

 _And Cassian_ , she thought derisively.

She slumped back in the driver’s seat, breathing through her nose as the reality of her situation bore down on her like cement.  

The insufferable barista with the shit-eating grin had been the bane of her existence for the last several months. He joked and flirted and antagonized her at nearly every given opportunity. The coffee cup she held in her hand was a testament to that. He had given her dozens—maybe even hundreds—of the same kind of coffee cup ever since he started working at the Black Rose. Each one with the same idiotic heart doodle; each one branded with the same phone number. Occasionally, he would add the words “call me!” to add insult to injury.

“ _You could always go somewhere else_ ,” she remembered Elain saying once. “ _The Black Rose isn’t the only coffeeshop on campus_.”

Her sister wasn’t wrong. There were at least ten other coffee shops within walking distance from the Engineering & Science building. But it was a matter of pride. Why did Nesta have to change _her_ routine in order to avoid a person she found intolerable? Besides, giving up what was essentially her go-to caffeine supplier would be nothing less than admitting defeat. Defeat was something she could never abide by, especially when her opponent was _Cassian_.

Yet here she was, contemplating calling his number because...because…

She had pushed away so many people over the years. So many people who had tried to get to know her, to _understand_ her. But once they saw what was underneath, they would inevitably leave. Better to keep them on the other side of her walls than endure another disappointment.

But Cassian…

She couldn’t explain it. Logic was her specialty. Statistics was her religion. But some long-buried instinct told her that Cassian, of all people, could see through her walls. How or why, she didn’t know. And what he saw, or what he _thought_ he saw, she couldn’t say. But apparently, he saw enough to know exactly how to piss her off, rile her up...

_And make her heart stutter..._

But she had to give him credit for not walking away. If anything, he only doubled his efforts every time he sensed her withdraw, defend, lash out. With him, she had to constantly be on her guard—otherwise he would take advantage if she lost her footing.

But she was losing her footing now, she realized. And if she didn’t do something soon, she would freeze to death without anyone knowing what happened to her...

Taking another deep breath, she started thumbing in the semi-legible digits Cassian had left behind. The mathematician in her told her how unlikely it was that he had given her his real number. Furthermore, it was equally unlikely, if not more so, that he would be able to help. But reason and rationality were not her advocates tonight. Instinct and intuition were.

So when he picked up on the third ring, she was both surprised...and terrified.

“This is Cassian,” he said.

She hesitated. Just for a moment. All her doubts and uncertainties hanging in midair.

Then she said, “For the record, your handwriting is terrible.”

* * *

Despite the shitty weather, Cassian was able to barrel through the mountain pass in record time to pick up a cold and irritable Nesta. The only reason he was able to do so was because he happened to live _right up the road_. The coincidence was both astounding...and hysterical. When he told her this, she looked like she was about three seconds away from biting his head off.

He never expected her to call him.

That she was sitting next to him right now—sullen and pouting—in his Ford pickup truck was nothing short of unbelievable.

Strangely, her scathing expression did nothing to lessen his fucked up fascination with her.

Fate, he decided, had a really weird sense of humor.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked, as he shifted gears through a particularly rough patch uphill.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Ah, a two-syllable answer,” he said, grinning. “Progress.”

He didn’t need to look to know how that lovely, edible jaw of hers tightened in response. How many times had he imagined kissing that jaw as he cupped her annoyingly perfect face between his hands? How many times had he imagined his lips grazing the corner of that full, gorgeous mouth as she snarled at him...

Jesus Christ, he had it _bad_.

He had never known anyone to get under his skin the way Nesta did. But what he felt for her was too big to be called a crush. He was ruined from the moment she walked into the Black Rose with those ridiculously stunning fuck-me-up heels. As if some giant magnet was lodged in his chest, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame.

He had no doubt he would crash and burn.

But something about Nesta told him it would be worth it.

Nesta could match him word for word, insult for insult. Her mind was quick and sharp; a steel-forged a thing of beauty. Their verbal sparring was off the charts. No matter how late his shifts were, no matter how many people he served that day, the few moments he got to spend with Nesta were the ones he would turn over in his mind on the way home. Hers was the face he would think about at night as lay in bed. It was obsessive and borderline unhealthy.

And yet, against his better judgment, he just _couldn’t stay away_.

“Can you not do that?”

“Do what?” asked Cassian.

“I can smell your pheromones from here,” she said dryly. “If you think you’re getting any just because I called you…”

He hit the brakes. Not hard enough to send them both reeling into the dashboard, but hard enough to make her look at him.

His eyes searched hers. “Do you really think that’s the kind of person I am?”

She bristled. “I—”

“I know I’ve said a lot of douchey things,” he went on. “But I just want to make it clear that I’m not doing this because I expect you to return the favor—sexually or otherwise. I actually _like_ you, you know. You’re smart and fine as hell. You’re also really prickly, but you deserve to be treated with respect. So if I’ve done anything that makes you think I’m trying to take advantage of you, tell me now and I’ll apologize.”

He was dead serious and hoped that Nesta could see that. Saucy banter and peevish teasing was one thing. But coming off as some smarmy-ass predator was another. If she honestly thought that about him...the word “horrified” wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

But something softened in Nesta’s expression as she considered him carefully, the flames in her eyes dying down to a mere simmer.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think you’re that kind of person.”

A wave of relief washed through him.

“Good,” he said, sighing.

“That doesn’t mean I still don’t find you incredibly annoying though.”

He smirked. “Somehow sweetheart, that doesn’t surprise me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, my loves. You can also follow me at lady-therion at tumblr dot com.


	2. Part Two

Nesta didn’t speak to him for most of the drive.

Not that Cassian seemed to mind. If he was at all intimidated by her icy silence, he didn’t show it. Nesta wasn’t sure if she should feel infuriated or relieved. Most people tended to give her a wide berth, darting around her like a school of fish. Cassian, on the other hand, clung to her like some reckless barnacle. It exasperated her to no end. And yet...and yet there was something about his absurd persistence that she had to admire.

But she would never, ever tell him that.

“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

Nesta shrugged.

The loud and sultry bass notes of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On” filled the space between them.

 _I've been really tryin,' baby_  
_Tryin' to hold back this feeling for so long_  
_And if you feel like I feel, baby_  
_Then, c'mon, oh, c'mon.._

Nesta leveled him with a glare that usually sent people screaming for the hills; a glare Cassian pointedly ignored as he sang along. He had a surprisingly good voice for someone whose prattling instinctively raised her hackles.

“What’s wrong?” He raised his voice over the music. “Not your jam?”

“I don’t jam.”

He snorted. “C’mon, everyone has a jam.” Mercifully, he turned down the volume. “What do you like to listen to?”

“What do you care?”

“I’m trying to get to know you, sweetheart,” he said. “Friendship 101.”

“We are _not_ friends.”

“Of course, we are,” he said, fiddling with the dial before she could snarl at him properly. “I’m going to guess your jam is...classical music. Listz, right? No, Rachmaninoff. Definitely, Rachmaninoff.”

Soulful lyrics about sensitive people with so much to give gave way to the dramatic overture of Nesta’s favorite piece: Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor. Nesta sat back, swallowing the venom that was gathering on her tongue. Cassian looked so pleased, he could have shamed the proverbial cat-that-ate-the-canary.

“Rachmaninoff’s pretty rad,” he said, with utter sincerity. “He’s a little moody for me, but his stuff really builds.”

“I...How did you—?”

"You were studying in the cafe one day,” he said. “I was clearing a nearby table when I saw you brought CDs. And then I thought, ‘Who still carries around CDs?’ And that’s when I noticed. Bach. Schumann. Mozart. Very classy.”

“So you were spying?”

“I _observed_ , not spied. That’s a very important distinction.”

“Liar.”

“Says the lady who claims she doesn’t jam.” He winked. “You totally have a jam.”

“The music helps me concentrate,” she said. “That’s all.”

Of course that wasn’t all, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. He knew too much about her already and the very thought of it scalded her insides.

She had to tread more carefully. “So...is classical music _your_ jam?”

“Not until you,” he said, so casually that she almost flinched.

_I actually **like** you, you know..._

_You’re smart and fine as hell..._

_You’re also really prickly, but you deserve to be treated with respect…_

“You’re freaking out,” he said, his crooked grin returning.

She grit her teeth as he eased into another hairpin turn. The world around them was a swirling wall of white, but Cassian maneuvered through it as though it were a cloudless day.

“I’m not freaking out,” she said.

“You’re lying again,” he said, the last word in singsong. “It’s actually really cute. So I’ll forgive you.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me. I don’t need your forgiveness.”

“I think I know more about you than you’re willing to give me credit for.”

That was probably true, but she’d be damned if she was going to admit it. Her ears burned so hot she could practically feel the steam pouring out of them. Was this because of rage, embarrassment, or a heady combination of both?

 _Both_ , she decided as Cassian began to whistle along to the concerto’s sweeping third movement. It didn’t help that he could also whistle with the expert trills of a songbird. If Nesta’s nerves had been frayed before, they were positively _unraveling_ now.

“We’re here,” he said, finally.

The cabin was a dark two-story blur against the snow and wind. Cheerful billows of smoke rose from the stout chimney. Warm light from the latticed windows gave off a soft, buttery glow. On calmer nights, Nesta imagined the cabin would look just as merry as the ones on Christmas cards.

As things stood, she surveyed it like it was the Overlook Hotel.

Cassian opened her door before she could take the rest of it in. The chivalrous gesture was ruined, however, when he made a flourishing bow as if he were some Regency-era rake.

“Mi’lady.”

“Oh, please.”

But she took his gloved hand anyway. Just to keep her balance, she told herself. Her heels were simply _not_ the best choice for this weather, so of course she had to rely on Cassian’s caveman strength for balance.

“Hey,” he said, his tone oddly gentle.

There was a flutter in her stomach that Nesta refused to acknowledge.

“I know this isn’t an ideal situation for you,” he said. “But I want you to know that I meant what I said earlier. I don’t want things to be...weird.”

“Weird how?”

“You know, two people...a snowstorm...only one bed to share.” He held up a finger to stem her protest. “I’ve got three bedrooms and two baths in the cabin. Trust me, the latter isn’t going to be an issue. But still, if things were different, I would have liked to take you on a date—or several—before bringing you here.”

“You _have_ to be joking.”

Some flicker of emotion passed through his hazel eyes. Something that looked suspiciously like hurt. Something that made Nesta’s chest inexplicably tighten.

“Let’s head inside,” he said. “It’s freezing.”

But the cold Nesta felt had nothing to do with the weather.

* * *

Contrary to what others might think, Nesta _did_ feel things like shame and regret. She just chose not to act on them.

Because if she were honest, she didn’t know how.

If it were anyone else, she would have brushed off the tension like so much dust. What was one more person to add to the list of people who found her repulsive? Especially if that person was Cassian.

And there was the rub.

What was it about this aggravating man that made her second-guess herself? What was it about this man that made her want to reach out instead of withdraw? His very presence was a irritating tangle of complexities. But unlike the equations she loved so much, there was no elegant solution.

At least no solution where she didn’t have to drop her guard.

So when she cornered him in the kitchen area—which was as bright, spacious, and charmingly modern as the rest of the cabin—she found herself torn.

“I like math,” she said, as if she were declaring war.

He raised a scarred brow as he set two steaming coffee mugs onto the dining table. “Okay…”

She pursed her lips and started again. “I like math because I understand it better than people. I like classical music because it’s just like math. There’s timing and measurements and unambiguous patterns. Math and music make no personal demands.”

“Unlike people,” he said, but there was no judgment behind this statement. If anything, he sounded...curious.

It emboldened her.

“People have expectations and emotions and feelings,” she went on.

“You have those too, you know.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He barked a laugh.

“People also surprise you,” she said. “You...surprise me.”

He crossed his arms, his flannel shirt stretching over the muscles of his broad shoulders. Shoulders that were definitely _not_ a distraction.

“I surprise you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I dislike surprises.”

“But you don’t necessarily dislike me?”

She turned away, determine to look anywhere but him (at whatever his expression might be).

“Hey,” he said, that gentle tone returning.

She turned to see him lean over her. Not so close as to disrespect her boundaries, but close enough that she could see the hazel in his eyes; their alchemic mixture of greens and golds that shifted depending on the light.

 _That_ definitely wasn’t a distraction either.

“You surprise me too, Nesta Archeron,” he said, his voice a soft and strangely reassuring rumble.

The gap between them narrowed until she could detect his scent: fir and woodsmoke and something very, _very_ male.

It was alarming at how inviting it was.

“I think you’re going to _keep_ surprising me,” he said. Then he dove to whisper into the shell of her ear. “And I won’t dislike that one bit.”


	3. Part Three

If Cassian thought he was fucked before, that was nothing compared to now.

Now he was fucked with a capital “F.” The kind that was written with blood-red sharpie and underlined three times in that alarming “See me after class!” kind of way. Because in addition to discovering that Nesta actually _felt_ things—possibly more so than anyone he had ever met—he also discovered something else.

One, she liked romance novels.

Two, she wore glasses.

_Glasses._

There were only so many revelations a man could take in a single day.

“You’re staring again,” she said, from her spot on the sofa.

“Hn?”

It was the most intelligent thing he could say once she turned that withering gaze on him, her eyes like blue agates intensified by the spell of those square black frames. An embarrassingly hot burn ran down the back of his neck as he sat across from her, trying to string together _words_.

She gestured at the corner of her mouth. “You have a little…”

He mirrored her, fingers grazing his lips. “What…?”

“Drool,” she deadpanned.

His cheeks flamed, close to scalding. The instinct to bat her wry accusation away with some crude remark was tantalizing. That had been the electric thrill of their dynamic, after all. But he sensed that if he fell back into old habits, Nesta would too.

Because whether she realized it or not, she had been looking to him all night for cues.

 _Math and music make no personal demands_ , she had said, after revealing that she didn’t find him as repulsive as he initially thought. It was a truth that added to the complex algorithm that made up Nesta Archeron. Just when he thought he was closer to solving her, the more compounded she became.

At the military academy, he learned the concept of equivalency: the strategy of giving up an advantage in order to gain something of equal value.

Against all his expectations, Nesta had given him a truth. Probably at great personal cost. So it was only fair for him to start doing the same.

“Again,” she said. “The drooling. Should I get you a cup?”

He grinned. “Sorry, can’t help it. I’m just _really_ digging your glasses.”  

“Liar,” she said. “Nobody likes glasses.”

He spread his arms across the back of the couch, keeping a respectable distance. They were actually having a conversation! A civil one!

“First: Friendship 101,” he reminded her. “Friends don’t lie. And second: People _do_ like glasses. None of that bullshit like in the movies where the guy takes off a girl’s specs and suddenly everyone realizes just how gorgeous she is. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a prick.”

She said nothing for a moment, that preternatural stare working overtime as he watched her process and dissect his words a million different ways.

“My ex didn’t like my glasses,” she said, finally. “He said they made me look owlish. But I can’t help it. I get it migraines.”

His blood simmered as an irrational urge to punch something coursed through him. He congratulated himself on keeping his voice flat as he said, “You don’t look owlish. I hoped you dumped his ass.”

She smirked. “He dumped _me_ , actually.”

He incredulity knew no depths. “What? Why?”

She shrugged, her expression shuttering. “I would think...the reason is obvious.”

The pang in his chest felt as sharp as an arrowhead.

 _No_ , he wanted to say, _it_ wasn’t _obvious._

“Nesta—”

“It’s nothing,” she said, brusque and dismissive. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Cassian didn’t want to drop it, but he filed it away as another thorny variable of the Nesta Archeron algorithm. He always had this image of men—or women, for that matter—throwing themselves at her feet. Sure, she could be intimidating as hell. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t worthy of someone’s affection.

Or acceptance.

More than anything, he wished could just _say_ this to her. But equivalency demanded that Cassian take no more than he was given and he made too much progress to upset that balance now. So he cast around for something else to talk about when he finally settled on the books she had spilled across his coffee table.

She had done it by accident, having upended her bag in a semi-frustrated search for those (not at all mesmerizing) glasses. Now its surface was hidden beneath heavy tomes on quantum physics, differential equations, and mass market paperbacks featuring shirtless men on the cover. He leaned down to pick through them; historical bodice rippers with names like _The Earl with the Dragon Tattoo_ and _One for the Rogue_.

“Seriously?”

Nesta snatched them from out of his hand. “Seriously.”

He cleared his throat. “So, your taste in reading...”

“Tease me all you like,” she said, her tone and posture frosting over. “I won’t apologize for enjoying stories where the woman has all the power for once. I won’t apologize for enjoying relationships that survived the odds, however ridiculous or exaggerated. And I won’t apologize for liking _sex_.”

He held up his hands in placation. “You _definitely_ don’t have to apologize for that last one.” Then immediately winced at how flippant that sounded. “Wait. That came out wrong. Let me...” 

“How do you do that?” asked Nesta. “How do you always throw me off-kilter?”

“ _I_ throw you off-kilter?”

“Yes,” she said, grimacing. “I’ve told you more things in the past few hours that even my own _sisters_ don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. The answers elude me and it’s just so _frustrating_.”  

There were several things Cassian could have said. All of them were wholly inadequate. So he stewed in the ensuing silence, that weird fog of tension, until Nesta rose and asked him where the bathroom was.

“Upstairs to the right,” he said, and watched as she left him without a backwards glance.

* * *

 Nesta wished she had another set of clothes.

At the moment, all she had was a blue wool sweater that was so shapeless, it slid off her shoulder like a burlap sack. Her black jeans had faded to a dull gray, making the rips and stains more apparent. In short, she looked like an underfed undergraduate. In reality, she was an underpaid doctoral candidate. Any money she received from her stipend went to her two worst vices: her caffeine habit and her shoe collection.

Normally, she wouldn’t care how she looked. But Cassian…

It wasn’t that she wanted to look attractive for him. That was preposterous. She just didn’t want to look like a bespectacled stray that stumbled upon his doorstep either (even if that was exactly what she was). Pride was a hard thing for her to aside. The fact that Cassian could shred through it like paper—and that she allowed him to—was terrifying beyond measure.

And yet she couldn’t forget the way his breath had branded her skin…

They hadn’t talked about that. How he whispered into her ear about how surprising he found her. He hadn’t said it in a snide way either, as if she were something to be owned and objectified. It was a far cry from how Tomas treated her, the memories of which she had firmly shut in a coffin until a single interaction with Cassian had coaxed it out.

No, really. How did he _do_ that?

Sighing, she took a moment to glance at her surroundings. Cassian had lent her the guest bedroom on the second floor, which also came with its own bathroom. Like the rest of the cabin, the space it was rustic and charming. It irked her. Everything from the cherry wood panels to the marble white countertops to the built-in skylights made her feel...out of place.

 _Towels_ , she thought.

Answers wouldn’t come to her if she was overwrought and overtired. Self-care and a hot shower would have to the best interim solution.

But in order to do that, she needed towels.

A cursory look downstairs told her that Cassian was no longer on the first floor. Most likely, he had gone to bed. Which was just as well. She didn’t know if she could face him when she was feeling so...exposed. Still, she couldn’t ignore the slight tinge of disappointment. Had she really grown so used to him being there, baiting her or otherwise?

In any case, her shower would have to wait.

And of course, Cassian appeared out of nowhere just as she shut him out of her thoughts.

And of course, he happened to be fresh from his own hot shower; rivulets of water running down the ridges, divots, and cuts of those hard-earned muscles. Muscles that stood stark even under the whorls of tattoos that seemed like an elegant extension of his dark, tanned skin.

And of course, she also happened to forget her own powers of speech as she surveyed the towering mass of his barely clothed presence, trying in vain to keep her photographic memory from engraving him in her mind.

“Oh,” she said.

Cassian blinked, finally noticing her there at the end of the hall.

“Oh.”

**Author's Note:**

> Up next: Nesta and Cassian learn how to share some...personal space ;)


End file.
